Juli Zeh - The Method

‘How exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘By doing nothing and keeping quiet.’

‘That would be madness. You don’t seem to grasp what you’re up against. They’ll accuse you of subverting the Method.’

Shaking her head, Mia raises an index finger and points it at Rosentreter’s chin. ‘How old are you? Sixteen? We are the Method: you, me, everyone. The Method is reason; the Method is good sense. I told the judge, and I’ll say it again for your benefit: I’m not against the Method. And for the last time, I’d like be left alone. It’s all I’m asking. I’ll work things out on my own.’

‘Can you do it by tomorrow morning?’

‘Maybe not entirely.’

‘In that case, you’ll need my help.’

‘Are you short of clients?’

‘On the contrary.’

‘Why waste your time on me?’

‘I want to help. I take my job seriously. The particulars of your situation fall easily within the criteria for an exemption — a first-year law student could tell you that. Now let’s get one thing straight.’ He leans forward and pats the air above Mia’s shoulder. ‘You’re not in the least bit to blame. Not even for smoking the stupid cigarette. I’m not going to stand by while they take shots at you.’

Because Rosentreter is so damn right, or because Mia damn well hopes he’s right, she finds herself close to tears.

‘Thank you,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘Taking shots is exactly how I’d describe it. It’s good to know we agree on something … But I don’t want any trouble; I need some time to reflect, that’s all.’

‘Absolutely, absolutely,’ says Rosentreter, beaming. ‘You do the thinking; I’ll do the dirty work.’ When Mia doesn’t laugh, he says, ‘I was joking. I’ll need another signature. Here and here. That’s right, Frau Holl.’

‘MIA!’ CALLS DRISS.

‘Frau Holl,’ says Pollie, ‘we were hoping—’

‘At least have the decency to stop,’ barks Lizzie furiously.

Mia is in a hurry to get to her apartment. With a shopping bag in each hand, she breaks through the blockade of mops and buckets and is about to climb the stairs when Lizzie grabs her sleeve.

‘You can’t just run away from us!’

‘Mia,’ says Driss, ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. I really thought your apartment was on fire.’

‘I hope you don’t think any of us would denounce you,’ chimes in Pollie.

‘Frau Holl,’ says Lizzie, ‘we’re here to help. If there’s anything we can do …’

Mia makes a break for freedom by stepping to the side. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind, but there’s really no need.’

‘Oh, but there is,’ says Pollie.

‘Of course there is, Frau Holl,’ says Lizzie, gripping Mia’s sleeve. ‘This is a monitored house and we look after each other. Especially if someone happens to be in trouble.’

‘Mia,’ says Driss, ‘you don’t understand: it’s not the way it seems!’

Driss would like to carry Mia’s shopping for her, make her a cup of hot water and explain things from the start. She would like to explain that she, Driss, is Mia’s and Kramer’s greatest admirer; that she was only trying to save Mia from the flames. Her eyes are glassy with despair.

‘It seems pretty straightforward to me,’ says Mia to Driss. To the others, she says, ‘Thank you, ladies, but you’re blocking the stairs.’

‘The stairs belong to us as well, you know.’

‘This is a monitored house, Frau Holl.’

‘It needs to stay that way.’

‘Have we made ourselves clear?’

Lizzie tightens her grip as Mia struggles to break free. Mia hugs her shopping bags and rams her shoulder into Lizzie. The movement is too vigorous. Lizzie has a foot on one step and the other a step higher, with buckets everywhere. She falls, buckets clatter and miniature cascades of soapy water drench the landing, while Mia flees up the stairs.

No one calls after her.

You’ll pay for that, you’ll pay, says an echo in Mia’s head.

MIA HAS NEVER had much regard, let alone affection, for her body. The body is a machine, a walking, talking, ingesting apparatus; its principal responsibility is to function without a hitch. Mia herself is at the centre of operations; she looks out through eye-windows and listens through openings in her ears. Every minute of every day she issues instructions in the full expectation that her body will carry them out. One such instruction is to exercise.

Over the past few weeks, her stationary bike has accumulated a backlog of six hundred kilometres. Mia starts pedalling and thinks about — what? For the sake of simplicity, let us assume her thoughts turn to Moritz. The probability that we are right in our assumptions is very high. Mia herself is aware that she has never thought about Moritz so much as now, after his death. She wonders if this is normal. Or whether thinking about her dead brother is a frantic attempt to keep him alive with the power of her mind. Perhaps, though, she isn’t trying to save Moritz, but the rest of the world, the future of which depends, as Mia has come to see it, on Moritz continuing to breathe, talk and laugh.

This much Mia has grasped: the centre of command can issue instructions to the body, but not to itself. The head can’t stop itself thinking. Mia, in spite of this knowledge, thinks she has a chance. If an overgrown child like Rosentreter can muddle through life, it should surely be possible for someone like her. She cycles faster. The twentieth virtual kilometre is already behind her. She must teach herself to think of Moritz at the same time as going about her normal life, not instead .

‘Seven units of protein,’ says the ideal inamorata, who is lying on the couch. She rummages through Mia’s shopping bags. ‘Ten units of carbohydrate. Three of fruit and veg. Exemplary. We’re on the road to recovery, are we?’

‘When I’m done with this,’ puffs Mia, ‘I’ll clean and tidy the apartment. You’ll see. In a few days, I’ll be back to work as normal.’

‘Good intentions are peculiar things,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘A powerful expression of their own irrelevance.’

‘I’d appreciate a little more optimism. “Law is a game, and everyone plays a part.” It sounds like Moritz, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Moritz wanted to be in charge of his own game.’

‘You might be right.’ Mia wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. ‘In any case, he’ll have to resign himself to having his lines rescripted by the rest of us. He’s the one who decided not to play.’

‘I’d like to propose a different metaphor,’ says the ideal inamorata, picking up a protein tube and pretending to quote from the packaging. ‘A single cognitive error contains the recommended daily amount of self-delusion for a typical healthy adult.’ She lifts her head and looks at Mia. ‘Want to know the truth? This isn’t a game .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Mia, you’re not going to fill the yawning crack inside you with Rosentreter and some exercise. The damage runs deeper, Mia. It isn’t about you personally; it runs through this country, and it started with the decision that individual pathologies are a luxury we can’t afford. You’re being eaten away on the inside by the rot at the heart of the system.’

‘You represent Moritz, and I respect that,’ says Mia. ‘You want to keep alive his memory; that’s your job. But don’t presume to know what I’m like on the inside. Even Moritz didn’t understand me. He thought I was weak and conformist.’

‘And the truth is …?’